First, I want you to know, my intentions were good. Like many who came before me, once upon a time I was an awesome parent. Perfect even.

Before I had kids. And that small yet glorious window where my visit with them was supervised by licensed professionals. The 48 hours after childbirth rule–I would so kick ass at mothering if I had a whole staff. Dugh. Rich people can suck it. (I’m looking at you Kardashians!)

We’re one week into summer vacation. The first morning, the little (what’s the word I’m looking for?) shitz beat me downstairs. Forgive me for not leaping out of bed, but in my advanced age you and I both know that could cause dizziness.

I know, I know. I shouldn’t have stayed up late watching Andy Cohen. (Is Andy Cohen gonna come watch my boys when they rise with the roosters? Um, no. Mazel that Andy–thanks for nuthin’! You too, Mama Manzo!) Whatever. Five minutes. To shake off the cobwebs. And not fall on my bed head. That’s all I wanted!

I came down, intending to make my children a delicious and nutritious hearty breakfast (Cheerios), and there was spilled milk all over the counter and the floor, 4 year old was sitting at the counter wolfing a huge bag of Cool Ranch Doritos that he somehow managed to split in two down the middle. (By the way, I do not know who brought that processed crap pms snack into our house! Naturally we only eat organic, whole grain, flax seed encrustedfortifiedenhancedbedazzled with vitamins and minerals and healthyfullness snacks here!) Six year old sat nearby in a mound of brownie crumbs, while 8 year old wagged his finger, “I had NOTHING to do with this!”

Fast forward an hour later to the dental check ups. I try to look Danica Patrick interested in the Car and Driver magazine after four year old locks himself in the bathroom, conveniently adjacent to the waiting room, and hollers, “Mom! I have to POOOOOOH!” Of course you do. Because Cool Ranch Doritos are the breakfast of champions. Do I know you? I’m just here to get my Car and Driver fix on.

While one reads quietly (thank you Je-sus!) the remaining waiting room occupant who belongs to moi opens and closes the Keurig coffee drawer 43 times, tries out the step lever trash can a half dozen times, asks if the girls’ hat hanging on the coat rack belongs to any number of girls we know, opens an end table and surmises that’s the secret lost and found, moves a chair back and forth, tests out the antibacterial soap three times, asks for a toothbrush, tries to break into the bathroom to converse with Sir Poops A Lot, closes the door to the waiting room, rifles through the toys as a very last resort, but then inexplicably acts angelic during the exam.

While the one who read quietly fidgets and freaks when he gets his fluoride treatment.

Huh? But I miss most of that because after Sir Poops A Lot finishes his biz, and it’s obvious the 12 year old in the waiting room isn’t going to claim him (his parents should really teach him to make eye contact with his elders—rude!) , he waddles to the door and whips it open—pants on the ground! pants on the ground! —and hollers, “DONE POOOPING!” aka come wipe my arse, woman.

So was I wrong to ask the receptionist and hygienist when we left if it was happy hour yet? (It was 11 AM. So sadly, no. I mean, they didn’t expressly say NO, because they aren’t my legal guardians, but I’m fairly certain they might have 911 on speed dial in case of dental emergencies and what not so I gave the hearty yet polite laugh to signal I was mostly kidding.)

I have been dutifully saving for my kids’ college education. Their 529′s are bursting with enough money for used books and dollar drafts. But I have to wonder if I should be setting a little sumpin’ sumpin’ aside for their therapy?

I mean, was I wrong to happily inform my kids there was 61 days left of summer break….and counting?

Was I wrong when I barked at them yesterday in the 97 degree 3 h’s (heat, humidity, haze) after busting around my backyard like a sweathog setting up our klassy blow up water slide, patching holes, hammering stakes, and putting together lawn games for a playdate when I asked them to simply turn the hose on and they answered, one after the other, um, I don’t really wanna.

WHAT!

I’m on an online moms group and I happen to know other kids their age make their beds, sweep the floor, set the table, and run Fortune 500 companies.

The extent of my kids’ chores that they fulfill without argument is running down to the basement to get me a beer out of the fridge. I even pour it into my own mug! Shouldn’t THEY be doing that? Oh, I told those moms that, too.

They thought I was kidding.

Those kids know I like the slim can and they better not come back with the Silver Bullets—I don’t even care if the mountains are blue or not. No thanks. A girl has her preferences, am I right?

UGH OH.

I had dreams. I had visions. My parents raised me with manners. They did! So I planned a treat today on a rainy day–we met daddy for lunch. YAAAAY. So as I sat at the finest kids eat free restaurant with my handsome brood assembled, napkin on my lap, elbows off the table, mouth closed as I chomped complimentary popcorn, we colored with the unwashable crayons (that damn well better not have been smuggled into my home!). We played tic tac toe, and I let 6 year old win one game to bolster his confidence but beat him in the second match because dude, no one likes a 6 year old bragger. All of a sudden, spontaneously, 6 year old spun the hanging light that teetered over our table while the mini Jonas brothers burst into song.

“I’m naked and I know it!”

What.

The.

Hell.

Thankfully, they weren’t naked. Bonus! And we were in the corner. (They know us! And remember us! Isn’t great customer service the best?!)

Should I have interjected and said, “Actually, the song goes, ‘I’m sexaaay and I know it.’”

I didn’t. Because I’m really working on being positive. Positive reinforcement! Because someone told me when you make one negative remark toward a kid, you need to make eleventycajillion positive ones to make up for it.

So I just smiled and clapped. “Great singing boys, great singing! I love you MORE than these french fries which, undoubtedly, were fried in unsaturated oil for your good health and mine!”

There is likely nothing I can say about the horror show at the Boston Marathon yesterday that hasn’t been said already.

I was born in Boston. I grew up not twenty miles outside Boston. Raised by two Bostonians, one of whom was a Boston police detective, who was the son of a Boston Police Captain. I lived in the city as an adult. And so it has been for my family, and for me, our home for generations, even though I have since moved some fifty miles north.

Like so many, I have dear friends who ran the race yesterday. Who worked tirelessly to train for what was supposed to be a joyous event. And who are thankfully alive and well, as are their families.

Like so many, I have children of my own.

And so somehow, this all feels very personal. As it should. We should all take it personally, that someone would assault and terrorize our friends, families, fellow citizens, beloved guests from America and abroad, in our city, state, and country.

I don’t know what will happen in a minute, an hour, a day, a week, a month, a year, two years, five years, fifty years. And yes, that scares the hell out of me. But I do know this. You do not mess with a city like Boston. Boston is Paul Revere and a midnight ride. It’s six generations Brahmin. Four generation Irish. One generation Cape Verdean. And everything in between and back again. It’s Regina and Santarps– the best pizza in the world. (Sorry, New York.) It is cold tea in Chinatown at 2 AM. It’s college transplants who come, fall in love, and never leave. It’s doctors, cops, bartenders. It’s bad accents we love to hate and hate to love. And Dunkin’ Donuts. On ever corner. (Really.) It’s Filene’s Basement (RIP) and the Pru. Triple deckers and brownstones. Universities and hospitals. Boston is wicked smaht. Just asked Donnie Wahlberg.

Boston doesn’t bow to queens. Or crazies. And definitely not to terrorists.

**On a side note, Erin Gale Williams is the winner of the book pack, I Just Want To Pee Alone and Mommy Mixology: A Cocktail for Every Calamity. Please email me at janet@muffintopmommy.com so I can email you with details. Congrats.

If that alone doesn’t intrigue you just fuhget it and get off mah lawn now!

A gossip bench, or telephone table, are gems from a time gone by. Basically, it’s a chair attached to a little table. Way, WAY (and by way, way, I’m really not sure how long, lemme be honest) before cordless phones were even a thought in some MIT trained brain and people couldn’t yuk it up in every corner of the house, people had beauties just like this:

ONCE AGAIN, I NEED SOME PHOTOGRAPHY 411 BUT YOU GET THE IDEA. ISN'T SHE GRAND?

Look at this lovely detailing:

THAT'S THE WAY, UH HUH, UH HUH, I LIKE IT, KC AND THE SUNSHINE BAND!

So the rotary phone went on top of the table part, and the phone book went underneath. And the gossipy hausfrau’s arse went on the seat. Amen. I really wish that table could talk. How many incredible conversations might have gone on? I believe this table might be from the 40′s, so my imagination runs wild thinking about it. A GI calling his girlfriend? A mom calling her newlywed daughter to share recipes? Two teenagers talking about what—I don’t even know what?! Two gossipy hausfraus talking about seeing so and so’s daughter at the five and dime with a too short skirt? WHO KNOWS!

All I know is I love this random piece of furniture! And hubs loved me enough to schlep it for me from some guy I found…wait for it….on Craigslist. A man who…let me just say, hubs said after picking up this piece of history, “I don’t want to speak of it again. Sanford and Sons. Without fun Sanford. Or his son.”

Okay then.

For better or worse, people. We took vows!!!

The wood on this table was actually in pretty good shape–you can’t see too well from my iphone trick photography, but it wasn’t the best stain job. All I did was unscrew the seat and slap two coats of miracle Annie Sloan chalk paint in the same Chateau Grey shade I used on my sideboard redo. It took no time at all.

THIS PART IS ROUGH. PAY ATTENTION. YOU FLIP THE CUSHION OVER, PUT IT OVER THE CHAIR FRAME, AND SCREW IT BACK IN. NEXT WEEK I''M TOTALLY APPLYING TO GRAD SKOOL AT HARVARD.

Before I put the cushion on permanently, I did wax and buff it so it would have a softer, less…well, chalky finish. I did distress it lightly as well.

So here are some pics of the almost finished product:

THIS WAS PRE-WAX AND DISTRESS.

I PUFFY HEART THIS FABRIC.

And…..now my gossip bench is ready for some 21st century action. I have actually renamed it the Chatty Kathy bench or Mommy’s Time Out chair. I love my kids, you love your kids, all of us who have kids LOVE OUR KIDS. But sometimes, they are ginormous PITAS! (Pains in the asses. You’re welcome.) At which point, we need an escape. Well, the French New Hampshire riviera is not always possible. I give you, Mommy’s Time Out Chair:

PEEP, A KINDLE, SOME VINO. YES, I DO BELIEVE THIS IS THE RECIPE FOR SOME MODERN DAY GOSSIP. I FEEL PROUD TO UPHOLD ITS HERITAGE IN A MODERN WAY!

YES, PLEASE.

ONE MORE SHOT. BECAUSE YOU KNOW I DIDN'T GET TO REALLY SIT FOR THAT LONG!

The funny thing is, with all of my recent Craiglisting, and seeing what these go for redone (and even not redone) on Etsy, Ebay, and Craigslist, I planned to sell the Chatty Kathy. But hubs —who wouldda thunk?? Has taken a shine to it and asked me not to sell it. What!? I know.

However, if you are reading this and you have a pocket full of cash burning a hole in your pocket, I will totally cut it free behind hub’s back (For better or worse, people!) for the right price. Because the French Riviera Disneyworld is calling my name!

I love you guys! Happy New Year to all you crazy muffintoppers. I hope 2013 brings you much peace, happiness, and prosperity.

Speaking of prosperity, or a lack of it, ahem, I have some fun stuff to share with you. During the holiday season, I got my DIY on.

Shizz to shine….all on a dime.

I gots to save mah money…..for new shoes and wine.

Or somethin’ like that. I also like feeding and clothing my kids. They are so demanding like that!

Quick backstory. When I got married and was all off with my bad self with a double income and no kids, I bought a traditional, pricey cherry dining room set. Which, I have grown to dislike over the past almost 13 years. Practically hate. I know it’s great quality furniture with dovetailed drawers and blabbity blah, but it’s not really my style anymore which is a gut punch because the planner in me thought I’d always like it because it would never go out of style. BURN! When I look at it now all I see is big and brown and… bor-ing. But at the same time, I feel kinda married to it because it cost a lot of money and because the practical part of me knows I can’t sell it for near what I paid for it. So, I decided if I can’t beat it, I’d join it. Or somethin’ like that……..I’mma show you some pics of my DIY but please forgive my craptastic iphone and pocket camera pics….I’m a writer not a photographer (definitely chose the wrong gig!).

I'D SHOW YOU THE TABLE BUT SHE'S CURRENTLY INDISPOSED.....WITH CHRISTMAS DECORATIONS ON TOP OF HER!

So the big Bertha china cabinet inspired this whole DIY kick. Enter Craigslist. I’ve been on enough blogs lately to know if you have an eye, you can score some nice pieces on the cheap and get your magic on. “Pfft! I can do that! I think?” , I huffed inside my head as I perused all the afters on blogs and Pinterest. So I decided I’d look for a sideboard to break up all the brown in the room and paint it a fun color. I also wanted a place to throw some lamps for extra lighting and a place to display some pics and other fun shenanigans.

I sniffed around and then boom, scored a cherry, dovetail, old school, sturdy as my muffin top, sideboard on Craiglist! FOR $25!!!!

ONE DAY IN CASA DE LA MUFFIN TOP GARAGE AND ALREADY, CLUNKITY JUNK ALL OVER IT. CAN YOU SEE THE SCRATCHES ON IT? SHE WAS A BANGED UP DIAMOND IN THE ROUGH....

You can see some damage here:

LITTLE SCRATCHY......

AND….

SCRATCHTABULOUS. AND NAKED--NO KNOB!

The top was a tiny bit sketchy:

A LITTLE SKETCHAROO BUT TWENNY FIVE DOLLAH!!!

Did I mention I politely asked made hubs drive an hour and fifteen minutes to east bumbleberg randomville (It’s not every day you get to drive by a nudist park! You’re welcome!) to meet a stranger at a barn to pick this up because I was skeered that this was too good to be true and that someone would stab me with a pitchfork and stuff me in a hayloft instead of selling me this thing of beauty for TWENNY FIVE DOLLAH! (Maybe I should write fiction!) The woman was a doll, turns out. WHOOPS!!! I mean, phew, because that really would have stunk if hubs was stabbed with a pitchfork and stuffed in a hayloft all because of Big Bertha! (I don’t even know what a hayloft is but I’m assuming it’s a loft with hay and a good place to hide a dead Craigslist shopper.)

After hubs got home, he was kind enough to A. wash the sideboard with Murphy Oil Soap because, hi, the kind lady bought it auction and who knows where it was and who had it and what they had in it and……eww and B. he took off all the hardware for me and then he picked me up some special, magical paint called Annie Sloan chalk paint. (Not to be confused with chalkboard paint.)

Let me tell you something right now. I read about it online and wasn’t sure what to think. The fact that it’s $40 a quart (as in $15 bones more than the piece!) and the nearest place to get it is a cutesy boutique 45 minutes from my house did not help sway me! BUT!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

They said you could paint something without priming and without sanding. I liked the sound of THAT. They said it adheres to anything. Often with only one coat, but that you should probably wax it afterward because otherwise it would be a very flat, almost chalky texture. It’s known to make distressing easy, if you’re into that. And, they said, one quart goes a long way.

I had to try it—I thought if this beast could become a beauty with this paint, it was worth the price of admission.

So here’s my piece (minus drawers) after two coats of Annie Sloan chalk paint in Chateau Grey—I’d applied them both the night before. I personally thought it was too streaky with only one coat but it covered crazy, crazy well considering the condition and color of the piece and no sanding or priming. I’m a belieber now. Seriously. And after two coats, I still had over a half a can left!

I did distress it lightly with some 140 grit sandpaper–first time ever. It was pretty easy!

I LOVE THIS LITTLE DETAIL AND THOUGHT THE DISTRESSING WOULD HIGHLIGHT IT.

Now here is where things got a little ugly: waxing. It was twenty degrees the morning I hauled this out on the deck to wax it. The Annie Sloan Chalk Paint peeps recommend you buy their wax but I was a. skeptical and b. really skeptical and c. trying to stick to my DIY cheap theme and so I thought, “HA HA! I don’t need no fancy Annie Sloan wax for….twenny five dollah! I can get a sideboard for twenty five dollah! I will buy Minwax at Lowe’s for TEN dollah and save $15 dollah! for beer/shoes/Cheerios.”

Par-tayyy!

Except it wasn’t. I wasn’t sure if it was because it was TWENTY freaking degrees. (Dumbarse couldn’t have gone all DIY in August? I had to start this shizz in December?). The wax was hard, crumbly, not pliable. I thought I’d just “Wax on, wax off!” ala Mr. Miyagi. Apparently, I ain’t no Karate Kid. I knew it had been going too smoothy–and the kicker? It started to SNOW and I could not haul this thing in my house because the wax is SOO STANKY and would have for sure given 7 year old some kind of asthma attack. As an added bonus, I had major bed head, was clad in polka dot pajama pants, and we finally got new next door neighbors and they were moving in just as I was fighting with a yellow wax can, sputtering and yelling at a green sideboard on my deck, which happens to face their house.

“Welcome to the neighborhood!”

I haven’t seen them since.

Anyway, lesson learned on the wax. I threw a hat and legit pants on, screeched to Lowe’s and bought the cheapest buffer they had for $30 bones and went over the piece and it was like silk. But next time I have a rough piece like this, I won’t hesitate to spring for the fancypancy wax.

Anyway, enough of all this! I wanted to take you through the process in case you are on a budget and want something pretty and shiny!

Here she is now:

HERE SHE IS!!! AIN'T SHE GRAND?!!!!!

OH! Here’s a close up of the new bling knobs I got at Hobby Lobby (Hob to the Lob–where have you been all my life?!!)

THEY WERE SERIOUSLY LIKE $3 EACH. OMG!

And check this out:

AFTER I SCHLEPPED THEM HOME, I COULDN'T BELIEVE HOW MUCH THE SHAPE MIMICKED THE SHAPE OF MY FAVE ASPECT OF THE PIECE! I HAVE NO IDEA IF THAT WAS SUBCONSCIOUS OR A HAPPY ACCIDENT!

I think my new beauty will have a long and happy life here.

OOOH, MOOD LIGHTING! THANKS TO THE TARJAY LAMPS I SNATCHED OFF MY DRESSER!

Sorry for the long post, Muffintoppers! I know some of you might not be into DIYing and want to just stick to the funny biz, so I’m thinking of starting a little fun DIY blog on the side. I figure if I can do it, ANYONE can. I have some other projects up my sleeve. I’d love to hear what you guys think. Should I go for it?

Update:

Wait! A reader told me I forgot to tally what I spent on the whole shebang;

sideboard: $25

gas to get sideboard: I dunno. I stink at keeping track of stuff like that.

hubs not getting stabbed in a hayloft: Free. That makes the trip to get sideboard, and finding out where the nudist park is, a free joyride.

paint: $40

wax: $10 (but I can use it again–when hell freezes over or my new neighbors work up the courage to speak to me!)

buffer machine thingy: $30 (But I can use it again! To get hubs ready for the nudist park! Too much? I’m kidding, people!)

What! The farfignugen! Is that? All a-bout? Surely I’m not the only one eating and drinking like I’m on death row or partying like it’s….12/21/12?

Tis the season to be a fat-ty, fa la la la la……

A talking scale? How timely! Say! Tomorrow, please post a deal offering me a spectacularly dull Swiss Army knife for 69% off so I can gouge my eyes out! And a 47% off cubic zirconia encrusted blowhorn so I can deafen myself to the “soothing neutrality” of your scale’s Frankenvoice!

I have to admit, I do enjoy myself a Groupon here and there. And I’m equal opportunity Living Social. How do you pass up a statement necklace?

OOOOHLALA! Image: Ily Couture

Or, um, red solo cup koozies? (Shut up.)

RED SOLO CUP? YOU'RE MY....FRIEND. Image: FunSlurp.com

Who knew I even wanted needed such things? And I have to admit. I have a secret wish to write copy for Groupon. These writers have skillz that are unmatched—for a word nerd like myself, their prose sings to me.

Usually.

But come on, Groupon. It’s holiday time. And if diamonds are a girl’s best friend, surely you know a scale is her most maligned frienemy. (Friends only when losing the LB’s—which, context clues would suggest, is NOT holiday time!) Must I spell everything out? For the love of muffin tops!

Justly horrified readers, let me tell you about the “fine print”….the deal is for your choice of two different scales. Groupon includes the features and benefits (???) of each scale. My words are in parenthesis and caps, just so you can crawl into my head for a sec:

Not only does the GNC (MUSCLEHEAD/NO BODY FAT/I LIFTTHINGSUPANDPUTTHEMDOWWWWN) AccuWeight Plus bathroom scale display your weight on a large (LARGE! YOU’RE ALREADY STARTING WITH ME AND MY FRAGILE EGO!) 1.3-inch screen, it also says it aloud (ALOUD = OUT LOUD = THAT IS JUST NOT CALLED FOR!) with a soothing sense of neutrality (THAT IS SOME GOOD CREATIVE WRITING RIGHT THERE. BONUS POINTS!) you won’t find in most wrestling coaches. (CHEAP SHOT, GROUPON. I LIKE IT! THOSE WRESTLERS CAN YO YO DIET BETTER THAN KATE MOSS!) The scale’s tempered safety glass exterior sustains up to 330 pounds (TEMPERED SAFETY GLASS?! THAT’S A RELIEF FOR THOSE OF US WHO PLAN TO REALLY GET OUR EGG NOG ON!), which is almost impressive as the AccuIndex scale, which holds up to 400 pounds. (GOOD TO KNOW.) The AccuIndex, though it doesn’t talk (WELL EFF THAT THEN! IF YOU WON’T SOOTHINGLY SHOUT OUT MY WEIGHT, I AM TAKING MY FAT ASS ELSEWHERE!), improves upon the AccuWeight Plus by disclosing your levels of body fat, water hydration, and bone and muscle mass in addition to your body weight. (YAY! MORE WAYS TO TELL US WHY OUR PANTS ARE TOO TIGHT!)

I CAN'T HEAR YOU. SHOUT LOUDER SO THE NEIGHBORS CAN HEAR! Image: Photobucket

P.S. I am not overweight. I have a water hydration problem. Finally! Mystery solved.

P.P.S. Groupon wants you to know, the first scale is available in black—that makes ALL the difference! Black is totally slimming! That will help as it’s shouting out my weight! Way better than some other unflattering color scale!

SEE? THE BLACK REALLY IS MORE FLATTERING, ISN'T IT? Image: Groupon.

You’re sold on this, aren’t you? I can tell. FYI though, you’re only allowed to buy three of these shitacular scales—one for you and two for a gift, per the ad. Oh the possibilities! Your mother in law? The blowhard in the office Secret Santa? The passive aggressive second cousin who always calls you Joe when your name is Moe? The neighbor who always brags about his second home on Lake Fancypants?

Forget the lovely poinsettia. Russell Stover candies? No way. Old Spice/Dope on a Rope. Hell no. Why go there when you can say it best with your shouty, large, unbreakable, black scale? “PUT THE PIE DOWN, UNLESS YOU WANT TO USE THAT GIFT CARD FROM AUNT MARTHA ON MORE SPANX!”

That is love in a box!

I dunno though. I kinda like to give gifts to people and then have them still speak to me, but thanks, Groupon! See, I’m thinking I’ll skip the fatabulous Groupon scale in favor of something else I think will be far more useful: the bullshit button!!

OH IT'S REAL AND IT'S SPECTACULAR! Image: Amazon.

The bullshit button is prettier, funnier, cheaper, and kicks the scary talking scale’s ass! It is fun for the whole family! Fun for a girl and a boy! Fun for a CEO! Fun for a homeless person! Fun for skinny people! Fun for chubby people! Fun for gay Republicans! Fun for straight artists! Fun for stereotypists! (Is that a word?) Fun for people who need a thesaurus! Fun for people who drive a Taurus! Fun for me! Fun for you! Fun for the kindergartner who licks glue! Even the old woman who lives in a shoe!

Your kids say they can’t eat their vegetables because they aren’t hungry? EHHH…..BULLSHIT.

Your boss says, “We can’t afford to give you a raise this year.” and then tears off in his new BMW? BAM! BULLSHIT!

Wifey says she has a ‘headache’. BULL-SHIT!

Hubs says you’re more beautiful than the day he met you. BULLSHIT–please refer to headache!

Friend says your new, do it yourself, highlights don’t make you look like Pepe Le Pew. BULLSHIT! (Sorry, but bullshit.)

Scale shouts out that you weigh 399 pounds after Christmas? BULLSHIT! You are 398 if you are a LB! Shove your BMI sass up your tempered glass ass, Groupon!

After weeks of a revolving door of sickness around here coupled with our uninvited furry house guests, I was rocking a funk pretty hard. I’d had grand plans to start back up exercising after a foot injury and drinks on the deck derailed me over summer, only to have a hacking Marlboro red cough hang on for well over a month. Co-pays upon co-pays and costly critter craziness (triple c–beware!) helped suck the fun out of fall. And ohGoddearGod the incessant political ads and phone calls are enough to drive me to drink.

More. And earlier.

I usually try not to be rude to the callers because honestly, it’s a person just trying to do their job in a rough economy, which must not be easy, especially now that we’re all battle torn. But calling me at 9:45 and asking me to complete a survey? When hubs and I had finally planted ourselves to watch our DVR’d Modern Family, commercial free and in peace?

No, homie, no.

SERIOUSLY? NO. Photo credit: Photobucket

I scowl at hubs and snatch the phone in disgust.

Me to hubs: Are you kidding me? It’s 9-naughty word-45.

Him: BLANK LOOK. What ring? Ooh, look at Sophia Vergara.

Me: I KNOW! THIS IS A BIT MUCH! I’m answering it before they wake the kids!

Hubs: BLANK LOOK. I just want to see more of Sophia Vergara.

Me answering phone: DO YOU KNOW WHAT TIME IT IS? (Suddenly, and without warning, I’ve morphed into my late father, who when pressed, would go ape on people—0 to 60 in a matter of seconds. Usually his ire was reserved for the door to door Jehovah Witnesses who would always seem to try to prosthelytize during nail biter Red Sox games. I’m pretty sure the soul of my dad is prayed for even today in J Dub circles.)

Friendly survey caller: Yes! I do, it’s 6:45!

PSYCHO JANET: NOOOOO, it’s 9:45 in my world!

Friendly survey caller: Oh, I’m sorry, would you have time for a quick surv….

PSYCHO JANET: Are? Are you kidding me right now?

Friendly survey caller: So, when would be a better time to ca….

PSYCHO JANET: When would be a better time to call? Um, never, how about never!

They broke me. They did. I didn’t want to be rude. I didn’t mean to be rude. But a girl can only take so much. (All this for FOUR electoral votes! FOUR. 1,2,3,4!)

Photo credit: Photobucket.

And then…it came. The guilt.

See, the thing about bitching about your Marlboro red cough and your kid’s asthma flaring up and your medical bills and being stalked for your miniscule fraction of your four electoral votes, and, and, and, and …the other crappity crap that’s befallen you is…..it’s called life. You gotta do it in context. Because the minute you finish decorating your big fat whiny cake for the pity party you realize, “Schmuck, there are kids who are REALLY sick. And moms who are REALLY sick. Moms who wish their worst health problem was fitting into a smaller size or lowering their cholesterol.” You know I could go from here to the moon and back on sad scenarios.

And that’s when you take your STFU sammie and sit down and shut up. Or as my bf and I like to snark, “Oh, s down and s up!” It’s crabbier and edgier and honestly, it instantly puts things in perspective.

But sometimes, it takes a kid to tell you what you’ve been missing.

I NEVER REALIZED I HAD A HOME WITH A VIEW, UNTIL MY 5 YEAR OLD TOLD ME TO LOOK UP.

Gorgeous, right? 3 year old, 5 year old, and I were playing in the back yard yesterday afternoon. I was going through the motions, kicking a ball and pushing them on the swings, but my mind was a million miles away. The critter people were due in a half hour to see if they “caught” anything. Gag. What was I going to make for dinner? Gag again. Oh, crap, scanning the yard and realizing I (and by I, I mean, hubs!) has to fix the fence/finish painting the shed/put the patio furniture away before the Frankenstorm hits. GAGGAGGAG.

Woh, woh, woh. Debbie Downer? Check please!

Also, it was my sister’s birthday. The one who passed away over two decades ago—more than half my life ago. And yet, all these many years later, the date rightly dances through my thoughts. Though I think of her all the time, this date will always be THE.YEARLY.REMINDER. of a life cut short. And every fabulous, and horrible, and yes, even mundane moment, like bitching that your favorite show was interrupted by a political survey, that we know we all take for granted— is magnified.

It weighs on me.

And just like that, my 5 year old fights to interrupt my subconscious, as if he knows damn right well I am present. But not really present.

“Mom?”

“MOMMY?”

“Mom, look!”

“What, honey?” I ask and absentmindedly glance around.

“Up there. UP THERE!” He points, emphatically.

To that sky. That gorgeous, perfect scene that loomed above the whole time, but I hadn’t noticed. Not even for a second. I was too busy looking down. And around. At all the “stuff” that had to get done. Probably, if I’m being honest, feeling a little sorry for myself.

And why? Would I and should I? How could I feel sorry for myself? When gifts are all around me. I have a life—a great, fortunate, wonderful, if not perfect, life.

I was reminded of a quote I read on Pinterest recently, “Do not regret growing older. It is a privilege denied to many.” The source is unknown. But the sentiment, is perfect.

I have a thoughtful husband and beautiful kids who love me unconditionally…..a house with A VIEW! Every day I get to live and breathe and have bad luck and good luck and no luck, really is a gift. Sometimes, I need a kick in the pants–which might be tight—but nevertheless! From a five year old.

I’m reminded that children live in the moment. Their world is black and white. They love unconditionally and without rules. And when we say or do the wrong thing or fall short of who they deserve us to be, they forgive and they pull us back. We adults, with our preoccupations and our propensity to kvetch and sulk and take things personally, we lug our baggage. It’s heavy. We get tired. I…got tired. Maybe he sensed it.

These kids are unbridled enthusiasm and glee, for the sun on their faces and the sky full of puffy clouds that may or may not look like a bear, or a firefighter, depending on who you ask. Or maybe a wink or a nod or a smile from heaven. Who knows?

I’m not going to lie. I feel a little bitter. See, I used to kind of like squirrels. Even swerved my rig to avoid hitting them. Slammed my size 8 clearance rack ballet flats—DSW! I love me a sale! Wait, what were we talking about again? OH YEAH— slammed mah fun shoes, wasted valuable tire tread, to spare these creatures a most nasty fate.

And yet. YET! Who knew these little rat bastards would take up residence in my humble abode? Trespassing squatters! Squatting trespassers! You owe me a rent check you fuzzy little shits! Listen up peeps, if one night you’re minding your own biz watching the talent on The Voice(AdamLevineAdamLevineAdamLevineAdamLevinecallmeAdamLevineAdamLevineAdamLevine) and it sounds like there are 300 pound men having a drunken bar brawl in your ceiling, that’s the first clue. It would be one thing if they were quiet about it—we could all just hug a tree and pretend that I didn’t know that they didn’t know that I know they know they are there. But no. I do know. Because you loud ass mothahtruckers woke my kids. You moron rodentia!

HOMIE, IT DIDN'T HAVE TO BE THIS WAY. THIS AIN'T MOTEL 6---I DID NOT LEAVE THE LIGHT ON! Photo courtesy of Photobucket.

It is ON!

So, because we are generally inept and cowardly, we made the call no one wants to make. We called the pest po-po. Who were more than happy to take care of this shitshow for us. For the low, low price of ELEVEN HUNDRED UNITED STATES DOLLARS.

What.

The.

*&^%.

I might swerve TO hit a squirrel on the road. Oh yes I might. You rat bastards are on notice. Notice! You are not safe. None of you. Go gargle with an acorn! Or an empty beer can tab I might accidentally on purpose leave on my deck steps. By accident. Take a dirt nap by my 3/4 painted shed? Be.my.unguestliest.guest.

Listen here, the Catholic Church has a just war theory.

HALLPASS!

Muffintopmommy, 1. Rodentia, ZERO!!!!!!!!!

For ELEVEN HUNDRED US DOLLARS I now know there are a gazillion small openings at our roof line –we might as well have hung up a “Welcome Loud Ass Furry Douchewaffles” sign. (Why thank you high quality tract home builder! I do SO love my home built of popsicle sticks and Elmer’s glue. So do the mofo rodentia in my zip code!)

The better news is, the flying squirrels have some mouse buddies who’ve come to party in my casa, too.

It didn’t have to be this way. I broke for squirrels–and they took advantage of my peace lovin’ nature.

So now I am sitting here. Letting the cold, hard reality marinate…..there have been multiple critters in the eaves of my attic. Scratching the walls and taunting my kids my delicate flower of a hubs. Poised to rage and ready to do damage.

Hit the road, Jackwads!

TAKE A HINT FURBALL: RODENTIA NON GRATA!

So I suppose, then, I should feel happy that Amazon.com was kind enough to email me today to suggest I might like to buy…my own book, Mommy Mixology. (Now available on Amazon.com for the low low price of $10 and change. You can buy approximately 110 copies of my book for the SAME price of eradicating rodentia from your attic. Don’t you just LOVE a bargain?!!) A for effort Amazon for knowing your audience. You titan of industry, you. Of course I would LOVE to buy my own book but I’m a little short this week maybe I can save up for it. Or perhaps they just sensed….I was having a bad, bad, no good, horrible, sucktasticly fracktastic $1100 day and might be in the market for a cocktail. Who knows!

Rodents happen.

You heard it here first.

And for that calamity, you can bet your ass there’s a cocktail!

(If you see me drinking a 40 in a paper bag, you’ll know the rodents won. Until then, charging ON with my high fallutin’ 12 ounce domestic beer in a can.)